


Surfacing

by pippinmctaggart



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-05-01
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippinmctaggart/pseuds/pippinmctaggart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Principal Lighthouse Keeper William Boyd has a lonely existence as he watches over the storm-tossed seas from Dubh Artach Lighthouse. What happens when the sea deposits chaos on his doorstep in the form of Dominic Monaghan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **thanks:** to [](http://tigertale7.livejournal.com/profile)[**tigertale7**](http://tigertale7.livejournal.com/) for holding my hand through this whole thing and beta'ing along the way, to [](http://giddy-london.livejournal.com/profile)[**giddy_london**](http://giddy-london.livejournal.com/) , [](http://celtprincess13.livejournal.com/profile)[**celtprincess13**](http://celtprincess13.livejournal.com/) and [](http://hyacinth-sky747.livejournal.com/profile)[**hyacinth_sky747**](http://hyacinth-sky747.livejournal.com/) for the fantastic beta jobs, and to [](http://vensre.livejournal.com/profile)[**vensre**](http://vensre.livejournal.com/) for some last minute icon help! Most of all, thanks to [](http://voontah.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://voontah.livejournal.com/)**voontah** for the original idea. None of this would have happened without her. ♥
> 
> Warning: WIP. It may or may not ever be finished.

  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/pippinmctaggart/pic/00128cgz/g31)   
  
  


  
Dubh Artach Lighthouse

 

Billy woke abruptly, pulse racing, nearly toppling from his hard wooden chair. The screams from outside the lighthouse lifted him to his feet and propelled him two spirals down the stairs to the window embrasure, set deep into the three foot thick stone wall. Leaning in as far as he could, he peered through the glass, eyes searching.

Nothing.

Frantic, Billy raced up, around and around, through the kitchen and then the parlour, finally bursting through the trap door into the lantern room. The lantern was dark, of course--the seas were rough but visibility was sufficient that he wouldn't need to light it until dusk. He circled the round room, eyes scanning the seas, the rock, ceaselessly searching from his shelter behind the enormous glass windows of the lantern room.

There it was again--the scream of a man in unbearable pain. It sounded like it came from further east, and Billy ran to that side, palms flat on the glass, his eyes gritty and burning as he searched and searched for the source of the noise.

When he spotted it, Billy cursed and sank to his knees before they could give out entirely.

A bird. A thrice-damned bloody _bird_. Forehead leaning against the chill window, Billy watched the seabird circling one of the tidal pools on the rock below, forcing his eyes to stay open, staving off the whirling darkness that stalked him. He would not submit. He _would not_.

He should have known better than to hope for any survivors after this long. It had been three days and fourteen hours since the lighthouse tender _Pole Star_ had begun to sink in a freak summer storm. Three days, thirteen hours and forty minutes since Billy's crew of three had disobeyed orders, thrown off all common sense and set out in the launch to try and save the sailors. The tender carried a crew of sixteen, provisions for the lighthouse and its crew, and their pay for the month--all three of them reasons for desperation, Billy knew. But Principal Light-Keeper Billy Boyd had also known the seas were too high, the gale too fierce; he had watched with dread choking his throat and lead in his belly as the launch capsized, as the tender sank beneath the towering waves with all hands on board at 11:23 pm. Three days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes ago.

He sighed and closed his aching eyes for a moment, offering up another fervent prayer for the nineteen souls he'd lost. Even for young Danny McBride, difficult pagan that he was. The thought of Danny, the self-professed disbeliever, having much to say if he'd known he was being prayed for brought a ghost of a smile to Billy's face, as it had several times over the past few days. Danny was--had been--one of the brightest young assistants Billy had had in years, but the lad's theological debates were-- _had been_ \--the bane of Billy's existence.

He thought now that he'd give much for another lecture on the crackpot theories of that Darwin chap.

Billy struggled to his feet. His catnap earlier had helped a little, but there was too much to be done. He wished he dared lie down on his bed, but despaired of waking before dark if he did so. Not after four days with next to no sleep. He wondered with a cold sense of dread when a new crew would arrive; there was no way of knowing the location of the only other tender to sail out of Oban or how long it would take to outfit a new ship. There was no way of knowing because the lighthouse telegraph was broken and the replacement now lay forty fathoms down in the hold of the _Pole Star_.

It had taken a week for them to discover those three keepers missing on Flannan Isle, Billy thought. He himself had lasted four days already; surely it wouldn't be much longer. And when the men (boys, more like) arrived to replace his own lost crew, Billy would sleep a night and a day and a night, and then he'd begin again, trying to put this hellish week behind him.

Until then, however, he had to keep the lighthouse functioning on his own, and there was work to be done. Stretching until his spine let out a soft _pop_ , Billy cast his eye first around the lantern room and then the service room below, checking to see if his fatigue had caused him to miss anything. All looked as it should, however--burner tanks filled and primed, wicks trimmed, lantern clean and polished, floor mopped. Everything was ready for the evening lighting.

Billy picked up the three empty paraffin cans and made his way carefully down the stairs, closing the trap door behind him. Trudging around and around down the spiral all the way to the storage rooms in the base of the granite tower took him longer than usual, and the thought of having to do it twice more to dispose of the contents of the privy and the kitchen slops was enough to make him want to weep with exhaustion and frustration. He hadn't emptied either the day before despite the regulations that stated it was to be a daily chore; until some help arrived, regulations could go hang. If he didn't get them out today, however, they would begin to reek, and Billy was by nature a fastidious man. Beyond that, the more he kept to the routine of the lighthouse, the less extra work he would create for himself if that help was slow to arrive. But it wouldn't be, he told himself firmly, trying to stem the rising tide of despair. They would be here--maybe even this very day.

Billy gave his head a shake, realizing he'd been standing in the doorway of the lower storeroom, empty paraffin cans dangling from the fingers of one hand and his lantern from the other, staring off into space like the village idiot.

"Too much to be done for you to be lounging about, Boyd," he muttered, and was almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. God above, no wonder keeping wasn't a solitary profession. A man would go mad.

Stacking the empty tins with the others, Billy held up his lantern and cast a critical eye over his paraffin supply on the other side of the room. He had always insisted on maintaining a reserve in case of emergency (and what was this if not an emergency?) so there was no need yet to ration the oil.

The word 'yet' reverberated in Billy's mind. Abruptly he snatched up a full tin and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

Several hours later Billy had had a late luncheon, washed up, carried out the privy refuse and dumped it out into the ocean, and returned with the kitchen scraps. He'd sometimes thought it might be nice to be on a shore station, to have a bit of grass and maybe a pig or some chickens to thrive on the scraps. Then again, how would he ever sleep through a gale without the pounding surf crashing out a primeval lullaby against the base of his lighthouse? There was something to be said for living on a slip of rock far out into the mighty Atlantic.

Billy stood for a moment, his face tilted up to the overcast sky. The wind was freshening, the barometer dropping, and he could practically taste another storm on the way, although it was unlikely to reach the intensity of the last one.

Making his way to a rocky overhang he paused, the wind ruffling his short hair up on one side, before tossing the contents of his scraps bucket. The stiff breeze swung and gusted, though, and hurled the detritus onto the rocks underneath the little promontory. Billy shrugged; the seabirds would clean it up. He turned away to leave when he heard a human voice drift up from below, startling him so much he nearly tripped and fell.

"Well, that's a kick in the teeth, innit, m' boy?"

Billy froze, and he breathed, and he feared for his sanity. He cleared his throat and shouted, "Who's there?"

There was a moment of utter silence in which even the wind seemed to hush before--inexplicably--the disembodied voice said, "This better not be 'nother..." A pause, then slurred, "'Nother trick, Byron. Rip your wings off. _Hello_?" The last word was shouted.

Billy was already scrambling amongst the rocks, searching out a winding descent to the sea. "Hold on!" he cried, blood pounding in his ears, his knees trembling.

"Did y' hear that, Byron? Hold on, he says. Bloody hell."

Picking his way down, Billy kept looking all around, over his shoulders, trying to spot the owner of the weakening voice, and finally spotted him on a flat shelf between two tall craggy boulders. He was shielded from above by the rock overhang.

The boy--for a boy he seemed from a distance--was dressed in tattered rags that were once plain, serviceable garb, and lay flat on his back. As Billy finally approached, however, he could see the lad was actually well into manhood and in his early twenties at least. Billy knelt beside him.

"Are you from the _Pole Star_?" he asked, his voice uneven both from his exertions and from some strange emotion gripping his throat.

A pair of eyes--only slightly bluer than the sea beside them--met Billy's gaze. "Are you real?" he countered, his voice naught but a croak, as if he'd used it all up in that one shout. "Or 'm I dreaming again?"

"I'm real enough, lad. Where are you hurt? What's your name?"

"Dom'nic. Swept onto th' rocks." His eyes closed. "Arm broken. Leg broken. Chest...head... Make it quick. Don't let me suffer. Please."

Billy stared at him, horrified. "I'm not going to _kill_ you!"

Dominic's eyes sluggishly opened. "You must. 'M in pieces. I'll be...crippled."

"Bollocks. You have a couple of broken bones--you'll be right as rain, man!" Billy's fingers quickly but carefully began to probe at Dominic's flesh, searching for other injuries. Dominic sucked in a sharp breath as those fingers found the break in his arm, moaned when they felt a crack in his ankle, and he passed out with a single touch to the wicked gash on his thigh.

"Bloody, bloody hell," Billy whispered, dragging a shaking hand over his eyes. Clearly, he had to get the man indoors as soon as humanly possible--after three days' exposure, even protected as he had been by the outcrop of rock, it was imperative to get him warm and dry and out of the elements.

Suddenly grateful the poor wretch had lost consciousness, Billy did the only thing he could think of. He pulled Dominic to a seated position and then--with a groan that sounded as though it came from the earth itself--hauled the limp body up and over his shoulder. With agonizingly slow, staggering steps, Billy picked his way back up the rocks, placing each foot carefully, using his thigh muscles to pull them both upwards, his free hand grasping at the stone. More than once he nearly went down, and it was only sheer bloody-mindedness that kept him on his feet, kept him going. He was not going to lose this last soul. He was _not_.

They'd just reached the top of the promontory and Billy, with an involuntary grunt of pain, was attempting to straighten his back, when Dominic gave a jerk and a shudder. A moment later he began to vomit, and the reeking fluid--what little there was of it--soaked into the backs of Billy's trouser legs.

Despite his vague disgust, Billy pitied the young man slung over his shoulder. Whether it was the pain or a head injury that had caused the sickness didn't make much of a difference at the moment; either way, the lad was going to be horribly uncomfortable for quite some time.

Billy crossed the tiny island as quickly as he could manage and entered the lighthouse. He nearly despaired at the thought of how many stairs he now had to climb, and his legs were already trembling after the climb up the cliffside, but there was simply no other option. With a muttering that was half curse and half prayer, Billy began to ascend the spiral staircase.

By the time Billy reached the level of the sleeping quarters he was drenched with sweat, his legs and back ached fiercely, and he was desperate to put the man down. He quickly realized, however, that leaving Dominic there would only create more work for himself, more cursed stairs to run up and down. In between the sleeping quarters and the lantern's service room lay two more floors, the kitchen and the parlour. The lad shouldn't be left alone, that was plain, but the lantern mechanism required winding every four hours, and Billy would also need the small desk in the parlour. It contained all of his logs and journals, and if there was one thing Billy had learned over the years, it was to never, ever get behind on the bookkeeping.

He was in excellent physical condition, but it took all of his considerable reserves of strength and willpower to hoist Dominic more securely over his shoulder and resume the climb to the parlour, the final room below the service room. Once there he leaned over to deposit Dominic on the chaise tucked into one corner, and nearly landed on top of the poor man as every muscle in Billy's body shrieked in protest of the abuse. Clapping one hand to his back, he slowly straightened, biting back an oath.

After a moment to gather himself and to catch his breath, Billy knelt by the chaise to remove the unconscious man's tattered clothing and damp, dirty underthings, thinking as he did of the supplies he would need. There was a medical kit, of course, in case of injuries that happened in the normal course of duty, but aside from that Billy would need splints for the broken bones and the sewing kit for the gash that ran from hip to thigh.

Billy gasped as his work revealed Dominic's bare torso; an almost solid mass of bruising, it looked as if not one square inch of flesh had escaped being battered by the rocks. God above, no wonder the lad thought he was done for!

Billy (not for the first time) wished whiskey, hell, _any_ alcohol, was allowed in the lighthouse.

Removing Dominic's torn trousers, Billy discovered the rest of his body was in much the same state as his torso. With another muttered curse, Billy finished undressing him, covered him with a blanket against the chill of the room, and hurried off to gather his scant medical supplies. While in his own private bedroom, he stripped off his stained and malodorous trousers, yanked on a clean pair, and then retrieved the bottle of laudanum from his small safe. Later ("Too much later," Billy castigated himself, forcing his legs to run back up the stairs and ignoring the searing pains from his thighs, "Dammit, Boyd, shift your bloody _arse_.") Billy once again knelt by Dominic's side, an oil lamp lit close by.

Everything at hand, Billy hesitated, suddenly unsure where to begin. He finally decided a dose of the laudanum would be the best place to start; the last thing he needed was Dominic waking in the middle of having his arm set. He tipped a spoonful of the drug between pale, chapped lips, followed it with a few trickles of water, and then stroked the blessedly unbruised throat until involuntary muscles began to swallow.

"That's it, lad," he murmured, unaware he was speaking out loud. "Rest now, and heal. I'll not lose you, too."

After giving the laudanum a few minutes to take hold, Billy set to work cleansing, salving, setting bones, splinting, stitching, and bandaging as best he could. Florence Nightingale likely would not approve his efforts, but as she wasn't present, Billy thought he could be forgiven his somewhat sloppy bandaging skills. Finally, after dribbling some more water down Dominic's throat, Billy covered him with the blanket and staggered over to the desk in the corner of the parlour.

He sank into the chair, nearly numb with exhaustion. He was no physician, but he thought the boy would do tolerably well. If there had been any major internal damage, young Dominic would have perished on the rocks long before Billy found him. It was the head wound that was the most troubling--and for that, only time would tell. Billy sent up a quick prayer that Dominic would awake with his wits intact.

With a glance up at the clock, Billy made quick work of adding his discovery of a survivor of the _Pole Star_ in the monthly Shipwreck Return. The bigwigs up the ladder liked everything to be fully documented. Billy had often thought they'd demand a recounting of every time he pissed in the pot, if they believed that information could ever be put to use.

Pocketing his fountain pen, Billy closed the Shipwreck Return, stacking it underneath the Daily Journal and Passing Vessels Log. Tomorrow he'd also have to update the Stores Log before he fell any further behind with his inventory.

Rising, he checked that Dominic was still deeply asleep, and then made his way up to the lantern service room. He only had twenty minutes or so before the lamp needed to be lit, and in order for the wicks to draw properly, the valves on the paraffin tank needed to be opened in plenty of time. Once that was done, he went up through the trap door to the lantern room proper to pull back the curtains from around the lantern lenses. The hundreds of glass prisms that made up the revolving light glittered softly in the setting sun, and Billy paused a moment to admire the seven foot tall lens. Normally he took great satisfaction from running his domain with clockwork efficiency. Now, however, doing the work of four men left him scant time for contentment, and he stole the moment with a pinch of guilt.  
  
Letting the burner slowly come up to pressure, Billy hurried down the staircase once more. His patient was still dead to the world (a state of affairs Billy devoutly hoped would last until morning, both for the lad's sake and his own), but just in case Billy left a hand bell sitting on a nearby table. If Dominic awoke and needed help, one good ring of the bell would bring Billy at the double. After dripping some more water into the boy's mouth, Billy left him, knowing he'd done all he could for the moment. A quick trip down to the kitchen to stock up on some portable items for a cold supper in the lantern room, and he returned to his duties.

Just as the sun slid into the sea, Billy lit the cotton wicks, adjusting the valves as the flame rose high, sputtered, and then steadied. He released the clockwork mechanism, and the great light began to rotate, signalling its unique identifier of two flashes every thirty seconds. With relief, he positioned his wooden chair beside a tiny shelf where he could set his oil lamp, and set to making notes in the Daily Journal.

_5 Aug. 1905_

_Morning winds westerly 10 knots, freshening in p.m. Visibility good to excellent._  
_Cleaned lantern room, privy, kitchen. Found single survivor of Pole Star, gave_  
_medical attention. Sunset: seas moderate, still clear, barometer dropping. Storm_  
_likely by tomorrow night._

Billy set the journal aside until it was time to add the evening observations. He took his monocular glass up to the lantern room and scanned the horizon as twilight fell, but seeing nothing except low white-capped waves in all directions, he felt free to take his supper.

Throughout the long, chill night, Billy attended to his duties. He wound the lantern mechanism every four hours, he trimmed the wicks to keep the flame bright and even, he logged a ship that passed through the lighthouse's beam in the wee hours, and he kept a weather eye out for fog. If he also took the occasional catnap or left the lantern room to check on Dominic--both expressly forbidden in the rules and regulations--well, he didn't suppose he had much choice in the matter, really.

It was just before dawn when Dominic awoke. Billy had gone down to monitor his patient one last time before beginning the lengthy lantern shutdown procedure. In the midst of straightening the blanket, Billy felt eyes on him, and he looked up to see a confused, frightened gaze just focusing in on him. He smoothed sandy hair out of the boy's eyes.

"Good morning, Dominic," he said, keeping his voice soft. "No, lie still. You mustn't jostle your ribs."

"Where--?" Dominic's voice was thin; reedy.

"You're in my lighthouse." Billy reached for the glass of water. "I'll lift your head--try to drink as much as you can. No telling how much seawater you swallowed, is there?"

Slurping greedily from the tumbler Billy held to his mouth, his head supported by a sure hand, Dominic closed his eyes with a grimace even as he drank.

"Aye, I know it hurts, lad," Billy murmured. "But you're going to be right as rain, that I promise you." He gently laid the young man's head down on the pillow again. "Another dose of laudanum, and then when you wake up, I'll bring you something to eat, all right?"

"What's your name?" Dominic whispered.

"Principal Light Keeper First Class William Boyd. But you may call me Billy," he smiled. He lifted a spoonful of laudanum to Dominic's lips, and when the boy swallowed it, followed it with a few sips of water. "That's it. Well done." Billy rose to his feet, fighting a yawn. "Sleep now, then, and I'll return in a few hours. If you need anything before then, just ring this bell and I'll come."

"Don't go." Dominic's good hand rose slightly under the blanket covering him. "Please--tell me--"

Billy silenced him with a shake of the head. "Later, lad. Right now, you need to rest, and I'm afraid I need to get back to my duties. The lantern won't shut itself down, no matter how much I wish it were so." Billy tried to keep his voice light despite the ache in his heart. He knew what it was Dominic wanted to know, and he hoped he could put off recounting the fate of the _Pole Star_ and her crew--the boy's shipmates--as long as possible.

 

Billy sluggishly awoke to find his head pillowed on his arms on the desk in the corner of the parlour. With a stifled groan, he slowly sat up and scrubbed both hands across his face, then through his hair.

"Are you the only one here?"

Billy started, then remembered Dominic. He turned in his chair and summoned a smile. "Good morning. How do you feel?"

Dominic looked wan and uncomfortable. "I've had better days," he said, his voice raspy. "Could I please have a drink of water?"

"I'm sorry, of course you must be thirsty." Billy climbed to his feet and fetched the now-empty glass from the low table beside the chaise. "I'll just run down to the kitchen to fill this. Would you like another blanket while I'm about?"

"Yes, please."

"Certainly. I'll be right back, so don't run off now," Billy's attempt at humour fell a bit flat, but Dominic gave him a weak smile anyway.

One floor down, Billy stoked up the cookstove in the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil. Fetching a warm wool blanket from his bedroom, he took it and the glass of water back up to Dominic.

"Let's sit you up," Billy said briskly, suiting action to words and propping several cushions behind Dominic's back. "Can you manage the water all right, or not quite yet? Don't be shy, lad."

Dominic's smile was stronger that time. "If only my Mam could hear you; it's not often I'm called shy," he said, taking the glass in his good right hand. It shook a bit, but steadied against his lips, and soon he had drained it. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome indeed." Billy spread the extra blanket over Dominic's legs, being careful not to touch the boy's broken limbs. "Now, how does a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge sound?"

"It sounds _heavenly_ ," Dominic said fervently.

Billy chuckled. "All right, then, Dominic, you--"

"Dom," the lad interrupted him. "Call me Dom, only Mam calls me Dominic, and then only when I'm in her black books."

With a laugh, Billy agreed. "You stay put, Dom, and I'll be back before you know it with your porridge."

True to his word, Billy soon returned carrying a tray laden with two steaming bowls and two cups of tea. He set one cup near at hand for Dominic, then carefully rested the bowl of porridge in Dom's lap and put the spoon in his good hand.

"Thank you."

"You're most welcome." Billy sat in the stiff wingback chair opposite and began to eat his own late breakfast. "I made yours a bit thin," he said in between mouthfuls, "in case your stomach is taken by surprise at seeing food again."

"It has been a while," Dominic agreed, eating each spoonful slowly and gingerly. "What day is it?"

"August sixth. Saturday," Billy clarified. Before the other man could ask the next, logical question, he hurriedly put his bowl down and crossed to the chaise, perching on the edge of it. He took the spoon from Dominic. "Here. Your hand is shaking."

Dom's mouth formed a moue. "I seem to have the strength of a consumptive kitten at the moment."

"Which is hardly to be wondered at," Billy countered, lifting a spoonful of porridge to Dom's mouth. "But you'll improve in leaps and bounds under my tender mercies, have no fear. Considering what you've been through, you're rather lucky just to be--" He cut himself off, flushing.

Dominic completed the thought. "Alive. I know." He turned his face away from Billy. "I'm the only survivor, aren't I?"

Billy paused, then set the bowl and spoon aside. "Yes."

"And are you the only one here?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Dom looked at him, frowning. "There should be a crew of four here, I was told. What happened?"

Billy lowered his gaze, his eyes resting on his fingers entwined in his lap. "They disobeyed orders and abandoned the lighthouse."

"They _what_? But...why?"

"I tried to stop them," Billy muttered, his thumb restlessly rubbing against the palm of his opposite hand. "I tried. They wouldn't listen. I ordered them not to go. I ordered them not to set one foot in the launch, I told them the seas were too high. Dammit, they just wouldn't _listen_!" Billy sprang to his feet and began to pace, agonizing, the responsibility for those lost lives weighing heavily on his mind and heart. "What more could I have done? There were three of them. Short of having a firearm, there was nothing I could do to stop them. But I should have stopped them, I should have prevented this! It doesn't matter, they were my crew, the fault lies with me."

"Billy--"

He turned and looked helplessly at Dom. He shrugged, his hands limp at his sides. "They just wouldn't _listen_."

Dom stared at him intently for a moment, then gestured him closer. "Come here."

Billy crossed to stand in front of him, but couldn't meet his eyes.

"Sit down," Dominic said, his voice gentle, his good right hand patting the edge of the chaise where Billy had been perched before. "Please."

Billy sat.

"The fault lies not with you, but with the men for disobeying orders." He put his hand on Billy's forearm and squeezed. "You were absolutely correct in ordering them to stay ashore. I was out there, I know; nothing less than a mammoth White Star ocean liner could have survived that sea, in that storm. They never stood a chance and it was suicidal of them to even make the attempt, no matter how difficult it was to watch us going down."

"I wanted to go with them," Billy whispered. "I so very desperately wanted to go with them."

"I know."

"I knew the captain. He's--he'd been piloting the _Pole Star_ for as long as I've been here. Seven years. You come to consider a man like that a friend, almost. And I stood up there and watched his ship go down, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."

"No."

Billy closed his eyes, anguished. "I lost them all. Eighteen men all told."

"You didn't lose them, Billy," Dom said, his voice firm, almost urgent. "They were lost at sea, but _you_ did not lose them. There is a vast difference between the two. And on top of that--well, you saved me, didn't you? Which, as far as I'm concerned, is the most important bit."

Billy huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh and could have been a sob.

"Look at me." Dom waited until Billy opened reddened eyes. He caught his gaze and held it. "You saved me. You didn't lose me too."

Billy felt his eyes spill over, even though he managed to make not a sound. It was too much. He felt Dom cover his hand with his good one and hold on tightly.

"So you've been looking after this pile of rock by yourself since Monday night, hmm?" Dom lightened his tone. "I don't suppose you've managed more than an hour or two of sleep at a time since, have you? A miracle you're still on your feet, really. Why don't you go lay down and get some rest? I can ring this dirty great bell you gave me in a few hours, you needn't fear sleeping the day away."

While Dom spoke, Billy breathed deeply, trying to gain control over himself again. As tempting as Dominic's suggestion was, he knew he couldn't, not yet. "Thank you, but no," he said quietly. "I need to get the inventory done. I need to know what's on hand when the replacement tender shows up--"

"Billy." Dom suddenly looked utterly wretched. "It's--we weren't... Bollocks. Billy, the _Pole Star_ wasn't going back to Oban after resupplying you here."

Billy shook his head, confused. "So you were to go where? Up to Stornoway?"

"No." He took a deep breath. "We were to sail 'round to Edinburgh."

"Sail 'round--but--" Billy stopped. He felt a little faint. "How long?"

"I'd guess another week before we can start watching for anyone."

Billy felt himself slide off the edge of his seat and land on the floor with a thump. He leaned back against the chaise and dropped his head into his hands. "Another week. Oh, God."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Principal Lighthouse Keeper William Boyd has a lonely existence as he watches over the storm-tossed seas from Dubh Artach Lighthouse. What happens when the sea deposits chaos on his doorstep in the form of Dominic Monaghan?

 

 

"Another _week_ ," Billy repeated, stunned.

"That's assuming they don't send a fishing boat sooner, just to check on you after that storm. They know your telegraph is broken, after all," Dom hastened to say. "So it's entirely possible--"

"No," Billy said bleakly. "No, I have to assume the worst potential outcome. It's the only responsible thing to do. There should be enough food for us, after losing the crew. Water will be fine, if we're not wasteful. It's the paraffin. I'll start rationing it tonight, keep the burners turned down a quarter spin. Four days of that, easily. May have to lose a burner after that, but..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling utterly spent. Desolate. Another week of nothing more than an hour or two of sleep here or there? Keeping up the equipment, cooking, cleaning, watching the light every night, all while so exhausted he wanted to weep? "I don't...I _can't_ ," he whispered.

Dom gripped his shoulder tightly. "I th--"

"I can't do this," Billy said, fingers clenching in his hair. "I simply can _not_. How can I be expected to do the work normally done by four men? How can I possibly keep my wits intact on three hours of sleep a day, run up and down those bloody stairs and keep the light all night? I can't fucking do it!"

"Stop it!" Dom said, his voice like a whipcrack. "Billy, stop it. Of course you can't be expected to do it all, you're not super-human."

"I have to--"

"No, you don't." He gave Billy's shoulder a little shake. "Listen to me. I can help you. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but by Monday I should be able to get around a bit, if you can find me something to use as a cane."

"You most certainly cannot," Billy said, incensed. "I won't allow it. For God's sake, man, you nearly died! Do you honestly think I'm going to let you--"

Dom interrupted him again. "Yes. At this point, you really have no choice in the matter, Principal Light Keeper Boyd. If you want to keep that light lit, you're going to need help, and last I checked, I'm the only other somewhat-abled body about the place."

Billy turned on his bottom to look up at Dominic. "Don't misunderstand me, I beg you. I appreciate your offer more than I can possibly explain, but how could you feasibly help? You can't go sprinting up and down the lighthouse stairs, can you? You can't carry the paraffin or clean the windows or climb the rocks to haul in the trap."

"No, I can't. But I'll be able to do a bit of simple cooking. Write your logs for you. Sit upstairs and monitor the light at least part of the night. I can't do much, but what I can do is save you a bit more time for sleeping. And with that, we can get through this together."

"Dominic--"

"Dom," he said firmly.

"Dom. You are not bound to do this. I am. Save your strength and heal from your injuries so you can return to your wife and your Mam hale and sound. The lighthouse is my responsibility, not yours."

"I have no wife, and as long as my mouth still works, my Mam will consider her boy back to his former self," Dom smiled. "And you're wrong when you say I'm not bound, you know. You saved my life. The lighthouse may be your responsibility, but you are now mine."

Billy climbed to his feet, every bone in his body aching. He began to pace, trying to ease cramped muscles. "What, like some Oriental notion of a life debt? It's rubbish."

"I disagree. I might not term it a 'life debt', but our lives are now undeniably connected, and look set to remain so for the near future."

Billy was beginning to grow annoyed, although he wasn't entirely sure why. The pressures of the situation he found himself in were affecting his natural equilibrium, he supposed. He normally would have laughed such a concept off. "Call it what you will, the fact remains that you are in no condition to be put to work."

"And don't you think I'm the one who should decide what I can or cannot do?"

"Considering you've suffered a head wound, no, I don't think you are! You're clearly not thinking--"

"Oh, I'm thinking very clearly," Dom said, still smiling. "And _the fact remains_ that you are my responsibility as much as I am yours, and I intend to care for you just as you are caring for me."

Billy threw up his hands. "Oh, for God's sake! The sea spat you out, and I'm beginning to see why!"

Dom laughed delightedly. "I can be a tad stubborn, it's true."

"Obdurate, willful, and utterly oblivious to the reality of your situation, you mean."

"We'll just agree to disagree for now, shall we? Now, Billy--"

"Unreasonable, pig-headed..." Billy muttered.

" _Billy_." He waited until Billy turned to glare at him. "The sea can't stop me, and neither can you. ...You poor fellow, you're simply exhausted, aren't you?"

Billy's glare slid, wilted, and died. His shoulders slumped. "You know I am."

"Get some sleep. I'll wake you at six, that's plenty of time to ready the light and get some supper, correct?"

"Yes, but--"

"We'll catch up with the work over the next few days. You have to get some rest, Billy, and you know it as well as I do."

Billy looked at him for a long moment, but finally gave in and nodded. "Do you need anything before I go?" he mumbled.

"A book? Your journals and logs, so I can see what gets recorded. And a glass of water would be lovely."

Billy fetched the requested items, made sure Dom had a chamberpot and the bell to hand, and then retreated to the sleeping quarters two floors down. He had no fears about the bell not waking him; the sound would echo deafeningly in the stairwell, easily carrying up and down three or four floors.

Wearily, he stripped down to his smalls and crawled into his bed. The utter luxury of a cotton mattress instead of a hard wooden chair, of a feather pillow and soft cotton quilt, was nearly enough to make him weep, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind before he felt himself dropping into a deep, dark well, and he knew no more.

Billy sat up abruptly in his bed, lightheaded but instantly awake. From above came the brassy clang of a bell being rung, the sound pealing through the lighthouse like sunlight. It took him but a moment to recall what it signified. "I'm coming!" he shouted, knowing Dominic had heard him when the ringing stopped, the echo fading away.

Taking a moment to let his heart rate return to normal, Billy scrubbed his hands through his hair, hard. Even before he'd risen from his bed, he was already cataloguing in his head everything that he should get done that evening. With a sigh, he climbed out and dressed in fresh clothes, even though he himself wasn't precisely fresh. Perhaps it was time for a dip in the sea on the morrow, he mused, rinsing his face in the washbasin near the small window. It was a lot less trouble than heating the water for a bath, for one thing. A glance outside told him the wind was rising, skiffing whitecaps on top of the waves, and he mentally added the task of checking the ventilators in the lantern room. They'd need to be closed partway before the storm arrived, or the draw of the winds would cause the flame to flare too high, burning more wick and more fuel than necessary.

Billy headed up the stairs, pausing in the kitchen to stoke the cook stove and put the kettle on for tea before continuing on up to the parlour.

"The man that invented the feather pillow deserves a medal," he declared as he entered. "A knighthood. A kingdom."

Dom smiled, but he looked tired, wan. "Let's give him Canada."

Billy approached, studying Dom's face, then laying a hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling, lad?"

"Tolerably well, all things considered."

"You don't seem feverish, which is a blessing, but I'd best check that cut on your hip. It likely could use a fresh dressing." Billy fetched some clean bandages and salve, and then drew the blanket back just enough to uncover the wound, without putting Dominic to the blush.

The bruising was revealed in all its multi-coloured glory, and Billy sucked in a breath at the sight of it. "God above, but that looks like hell."

Dom looked down at his own chest and stomach, wincing. "It is rather...spectacular, isn't it? I'm turning into a perfect rainbow. Luckily, it looks worse than it feels, today. I think maybe the trip up here from my lovely seaside bed might have renewed it some."

"I wish I'd known," Billy said, regret writ plain on his face. "I'd never have carried you over my shoulder."

Dom smiled up at him. "I'm quite pleased you did, myself, since there seems to be a shameful lack of litters on this fine island."

Billy knelt beside the chaise and removed the bandage covering the cut that ran from Dominic's hip to his thigh. "You must have the constitution of a draught horse," he commented as he inspected the skin surrounding the stitches. "You laid in your filthy clothes for days, and yet this shows no sign of infection."

Dom peered down at the row of neat stitches. "Did you do that?" he asked in surprise.

"Last I checked, I'm the only other somewhat-abled body about the place," Billy teased, echoing Dom's words from that morning. "I'll put some salve on it, nonetheless. No point in tempting fate, is there?"

"What's in it?"

"The salve?" Billy opened the small pot and began spreading the thick ointment on the laceration with one delicate finger. "Mostly arnica, calendula, and hypericum in honey. A few other things, I think. My sister puts it up every year and sends some with me for the unavoidable cuts and scrapes one gets working here." The salve applied, he rebandaged the wound and pulled the blanket back into place. "There, that should help some. Now, lay down again and take a wee nap while I get us some tea. I really shouldn't have let you talk me into sleeping that long, not when you're still in such need of rest yourself."

"I'm all right," Dom began, but Billy cut him off.

"All right, yes, but your face is three shades paler than it was this morning, and the circles under your eyes are beginning to make a liar of you."

"But--"

Billy glared at him, although from the twitch of Dominic's lips, it wasn't precisely fierce. "I'll hear no 'buts' from you, my lad. You'll sleep until tea or I'll dose your oatcakes and knock you out until morning," he threatened.

Dom lifted his good hand in surrender. "Enough, enough, I'll nap. When did you meet my Mam, anyway? That impression was absolutely uncanny."

With a chuckle, Billy helped him adjust his pillows to lay flat. "Your Mam sounds like an eminently sensible woman. I'll wake you for tea."

Dom closed his eyes. "Tea. Maybe tomorrow I can manage to help a bit." His voice softened, deepened with the weariness he could no longer hide, and Billy knew despite his protests, the young man was not very far from sleep already. "I wish you didn't need to wait on me hand and foot. You have enough to do. Time I pitched in and earned my keep..."

Shaking his head, Billy turned down the oil lantern, picked up his Stores Log from the desk, and retreated to the kitchen. Finding the kettle already boiling, he made a pot of tea and set it to steep. He set the heavy cast iron pan on the stove to heat up, and as it did so, in a crockery bowl he mixed up a stiff, mealy dough. Within a few minutes, Billy was rolling it out and cutting it into quarters, and he laid the quarters in the skillet to fry. While the oatcakes were cooking, Billy used the time to check on his food stores. He'd become adept over the years at estimating how much oatmeal, flour, and sugar were left in each sack, and while some items were getting low, at least he had no fears of he and Dom running out of food before the next tender finally arrived.

That task finished and the oatcakes cooked through, Billy returned to the parlour, taking their tea with him. He quietly set the tray on the table beside the chaise, pouring two cups and adding a bit of sugar to Dom's. He brought the armchair closer and sat for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the strong winds outside the 'house, sipping his tea, watching Dom sleep.

The younger man had sandy-coloured hair, a rounded nose, and an off-kilter chin that Billy assumed was the result of a broken jaw when he was a child. It was a unique face, to be sure, but a handsome one for all of that. His mouth was thin, his lips pale and pink and open slightly as he slept.  
  
Billy tore his eyes away, uncomfortable.

After a few moments, he leaned over and put a hand on Dominic's shoulder. "Dom?" he said, not raising his voice. "Do you want tea, lad?"

An incomprehensible mumble answered him.

"Dom."

"Mph. Hmm?"

"Tea?"

"Yes, please," he croaked, then sluggishly opened his eyes. "It's getting dark. What day is it?"

"Still Saturday," Billy smiled. "And it's a little dim in here because I turned the lamp down." He rose, turned the wick back up, and then helped Dom to a sitting position before handing him his tea.

Dom took a sip, and sighed. "Oh, I needed that. What smells so good?"

"Just some oatcakes," Billy said, passing him a small plate with a golden brown quarter on it, broken into smaller, more manageable pieces.

" _Wonderful_ ," Dom breathed, then added, "Thank you, Billy. I truly appreciate all the work you're doing on my behalf, I hope you know that."

"Pfft," Billy waved him off. "I normally cook for four, it's certainly no trouble to make do for just the two of us."

"Trouble or no," he insisted, "I am immensely grateful."

"You're very welcome," Billy said, then added, "Now eat, Dominic."

Dom sketched a salute. "Yes, sir!"

Making a face at him, Billy poured himself more tea. "So do you have another name, Dom? You're a Northerner, that's plain."

"Monaghan," he said around a small mouthful of oatcake. "Manchester, Da's a foreman in the mines."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "Your da works underground in a landlocked city, and yet you're a sailor. How did that come about, then?"

"Da expected me to follow him into the mines, but I couldn't stand the thought. The weight of all that rock hovering right over my head, just waiting to come crashing down and bury me alive?" He shuddered. "Not for me, that life. And in Manchester, it was either that or the mills, trapped inside all day for a pittance; but I had to do something outside, in the wind and rain and sun. With eight kids at home, Mam was a genius at making ends meet, but I decided one less mouth to feed would help more than the one pound a week I could bring in. So I left."

"How long ago was that?" Billy asked, putting another oatcake on Dom's plate.

Dom screwed his face up, thinking. "I was sixteen, so...twelve years ago?"

"You're never twenty-eight!" Billy exclaimed. "I would have guessed you at twenty-one or -two!"

With a grin, Dom shook his head. "I'm getting downright ancient, so I am."

Billy snorted. "If you're ancient, that would make me Methuselah. So tell me, how does the son of a Mancunian miner end up at a Scottish lighthouse?"

"Bad luck?" he joked. "I originally went to Liverpool, thought I could get a job on the docks, thought I'd like being by the sea. Did that for some time, and then I ended up being hired aboard a Scottish fishing boat that had lost three quarters of her crew in the storm of '95."

"I remember that one," Billy nodded. "I was working the shore station at Ardnamurchan; we lost our boat, three sheep, and one hundred yards of fence to the seas. The road was washed out, too."

"It was terrible," Dom agreed. "The fisherman who owned the boat said he lost seven men, and they were blown so badly off course he wound up limping into Liverpool instead of Girvan, where he sailed out of. So I signed on with him, and he taught me everything he knew about fishing and captaining a boat. He died in 1900, and another bloke sailed me up to Glasgow, said there was plenty of work there. Turned out he was exaggerating about that, but I managed a job on a freighter that ferried cargo to Dublin, and from there wound up in Oban. It was just being in the right place at the right time that got me aboard the _Pole Star_. I wasn't half thrilled to get a steady job with the Lighthouse Board, let me tell you. And that was last year."

Billy appraised him anew. "I've been here eight months out of this past year. I don't remember seeing you before."

Dom, surprisingly, turned a little pink. "I remember seeing _you_."

Taken aback, Billy could do nothing more than look at him for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I--I reckon I'd best get the washing up done. More tea before I take the pot?"

Dom wordlessly held his cup out, not meeting Billy's eyes. "Thank you."

"Enough with the thanks," Billy said gruffly. "Consider yourself welcomed." After pouring Dom the remainder of the tea, he loaded the empty dishes onto the tray and returned to the kitchen. With a kettle of water warmed on the stove and a few soap flakes, Billy quickly completed the washing up, determinedly not thinking about his guest upstairs. Instead, he focussed on the sounds of the storm rising outside the lighthouse, the storm he'd known was coming. He prayed there were no smaller ships nearby; he didn't think he could bear watching another vessel in trouble any time soon.

Billy tidied up the kitchen, putting everything away in its proper place, before ascending the stairs once again. He found Dom reading the Daily Journal, and so left him to it and continued on up to the service room to prepare for the evening lighting. Valves opened (not fully, in order to conserve the paraffin), wicks trimmed to the proper length, and mechanism wound, he climbed up to the lantern room and drew the curtains, taking his first proper look at the building storm. Rain lashed the windows, and the high winds carried sea spray up to drench everything. With heavy, dark clouds scudding overhead, he made the decision to move the lighting time up; night would fall much faster in that weather. He shut the ventilation openings down by half to prevent the wind whistling through and drawing the flame up, making sure none of them were closed tight. On a cold night like that, condensation would more easily build up inside the glass if there wasn't some air movement. Taking another look around to make sure he hadn't forgot anything, Billy returned to the parlour.

Dom sat with the Daily Journal still open in his lap, finger tracing over the words written on the page. There was a furrow between his brows, and he looked pensive.

Billy sat in the armchair opposite. "Dom?"

"'Storm worsening, winds fifty to sixty knots'," he read, his voice a bit flat. "'Seas rough with 40 foot swells.' The one that heeled us over was sixty if it was an inch."

"That was written about an hour before," Billy said quietly.

Dom continued as if he hadn't even heard. "' _Pole Star_ listed to starboard, took on water. Witnessed two men swept overboard.' Probably Jimmy and Nico, they had been trying to secure the rigging. Did one of them have his hair back in a long black plait?"

"I don't know," Billy said, trying to speak gently. "I couldn't see from here, even with my glass."

"No. No, I don't suppose you could, at that." He paused, and then read, "'Ship went down at the bow, sank at 11:23 pm, August first, 1905, all hands presumed lost.'"

Billy's gut twisted at the words. "Dom, please."

"It's so remote. So strange, reading such plain words about something so..." Dom trailed off. "The noise of it all, is what I remember the most, the terrible noise. The wind howling, lines snapping, wood groaning. Men shouting and, at the end, screaming." From the storm outside came a long, rolling rumble of thunder. Dom shuddered. "The thunder. Dear God, it was loud, out there in the midst of it. And then, of course, when it was plain she was going down we jumped for it. I came up near Alex, I tried to get to him. He was the youngest on board, it was only his second trip, and I didn't even know if he could swim. But the wind whipped a wave straight into my face, and when I could see again, he was gone in the darkness. And it was cold, so cold. I shouted for the others for a few minutes, but if they answered, I didn't hear them over the storm. So I set out for the lighthouse; thank God for you and your light." Dom's face was tipped down, and he stared at the fingers of his right hand as they repetitively skimmed over the bandaged splint on his opposite arm again and again. "The current was carrying me parallel to the island, I had to swim as hard as I could, I didn't think I was going to make it. A wave picked me up, then, and dashed me against the rocks, and that's when my leg broke. I thought it was worth it, a measly broken leg in return for reaching solid land, only I hadn't quite reached it yet, because I was pulled right back out, where the next wave caught me and threw me in again."

Billy stayed silent, watching him.

"I'm not sure how long that went on," Dom continued after a moment, his voice raspy now. "I couldn't grasp hold of anything before the sea pulled me out again. I just kept being tumbled about, battered by the sea and the rocks, until finally a wave larger than the rest tossed me up higher, and I reckon I managed to cling on until I was free of the water, and I hauled myself up onto that shelf where you found me." He rubbed his forehead, as if it pained him. "I was in and out of consciousness the rest of the time. I tried shouting a few times, but that only made my head worse, and I doubt I was loud enough, besides. I thought...I thought I'd survived the sinking, survived the storm, survived the sea, only to die broken and starving a hundred feet from help." He swallowed thickly.

"But you didn't," Billy said softly. "And I have one question for you."

Dom looked terribly weary. "What?"

"Who's Byron?"

Startled, he lifted his eyes to Billy. "What?"

"Byron. When I first found you, I could hear you talking, and you told Byron you'd rip his wings off," Billy smiled.

Dom was surprised into a small laugh. "That's right. My bosom friend and companion. Byron is a gannet, a big bastard at that, and he was around almost constantly from that first morning. He stayed a fair distance from me to start, but when I didn't move all day, I think his curiosity got the better of him, and he crept closer and closer. I thought I heard a voice at one point, coming from the rocks above me, but it turned out it was just Byron, and I cursed him roundly."

"Ah, hence 'ripping his wings off', if he was tricking you again. Why 'Byron', though?"

Looking away from Billy, Dom said, "Well--he--I mean to say, for one thing, he had a limp. And of course Lord Byron walked with a limp for much of his life."

Billy cocked his head. "And for another?"

"And for another..." Dom sighed. "I'd been reading _Childe Harold_ , my copy of which is now at the bottom of the North Atlantic, I might add. And one passage in particular kept slithering through my brain, until in my disoriented state I started reciting it to the bloody bird, and then I just called him Byron, and now you'll think I've lost my faculties entirely!"

Chuckling, Billy said, "Not at all, lad. What was the passage about?"

Dom hesitated, then began to recite.

" _Once more upon the waters! yet once more!_  
_And the waves bound beneath me as a steed_  
_That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!_  
_Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!_  
_Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,_  
_And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,_  
_Still must I on; for I am as a weed,_  
_Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail_  
_Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail._ "  
  
Billy leaned back into his chair, once more bewildered beyond telling by the young man in front of him. "A seafaring son of a miner who also recites Romantic poetry by heart," he murmured. "You're full of surprises, Dominic."

Dom dragged his eyes up to meet Billy's, and his face flushed. "Have you read Byron, then?"

"Indeed, I have."

"What about--what about Wilde?" Dom stammered.

"Aye," Billy said quietly.

"And--and I'm sure you've read Shakespeare's sonnets."

Billy nodded once.

"A-and Marlowe? Whitman?"

"Dom--"

"You know what I mean, don't you?" he said, sounding almost desperate. "Please, just--"

Billy rose to his feet, looking down at Dom with something akin to sympathy on his face and something uncomfortably sharp in his gut. "Yes, Dom, I do know what you mean." He paused, then gently added, "And that's an end to it." Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the stairs. "Time for the evening lighting," he said, his voice fighting to reach normal. "It's early tonight thanks to the storm, but I'll be up and down throughout the evening. If you need anything, just ring the bell, and I'll come down straightaway."

Dom didn't say anything, but his face was flaming.

"Dom," Billy said, standing on the first stair and looking back. "You need fear no judgment from me. All right?"

Dom nodded jerkily.

"You're not alone," Billy said gently. "But I'm not the one for you."


End file.
